


Ipseity

by silveriris



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, M/M, not exactly Fenders but there are hints here and there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-20 22:38:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3667809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silveriris/pseuds/silveriris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He saw his own face staring at him with anger and panic. Fenris was on the verge of losing his sanity once and forever. / ye olde body swap trope; full summary and warnings inside [complete]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> additional warnings just in case: substance abuse; mild sexual themes; sometimes swearing  
> Disclaimer: Dragon Age is not mine, although the writing certainly is.  
> A/N: divided into chapters because apparently I don't do *short* oneshots, and this thing got lengthy… I’ll post the rest once I’m done editing.  
> The reason why I wrote this is that I had a paper to write, and I procrastinated so much that I actually wrote a fic instead. Incredible. I still haven’t written the paper…

_ipseity_   –  selfhood; the quality of being oneself; the essential element of individual identity

* * *

 

They always followed Hawke no matter what, and even though sometimes Fenris questioned why their self–proclaimed leader aka the Champion of Kirkwall got excited every time there was a possibility of doing a job that _could_ result in getting a bag of gold coins. Usually all they got was trash like rusty swords or a pair of torn trousers, and as a bonus – bruises after fighting with all possible kinds of opponents, including slavers, assassins or the local fauna (namely: giant spiders). It was as if the quest itself was more important than the prize that awaited afterwards. Maybe that was exactly the reason why Marian Hawke always said “yes” to adventuring.

As much as Fenris didn’t mind Hawke, he wasn’t exactly a fan of other party members; Marian dragged also Sebastian, Merrill and Anders with her, so Fenris kept his mouth shut and avoided eye contact. At least the abomination wasn’t rambling about mages, and the Dalish girl wasn’t annoying him. _Yet._

 He couldn’t quite remember what was supposed to be the reason of their quest, though he did remember why he disliked the area outside Kirkwall. There was always someone, or some _thing_ , just waiting to attack them. But Hawke wanted to go, so they followed her like mindless sheep with only mild complaining. This time Hawke led them into some ruins; supposedly there might be a treasure awaiting them, although Fenris doubted they would find something else than dust, filth and spider webs. He watched their surroundings, ready to strike if attacked, but nothing happened. Once they reached a vast chamber, Hawke examined the place carefully, the top of her staff glowing slightly, serving as an additional source of light to help her find anything worth her attention.

“Hey, look, we actually found a thing!” Hawke gave them a wide smile, holding up an orange–sized golden ball.

“So you didn’t expect us to find anything worth our time and energy we spent getting here?” Anders sighed. “At least there’s no giant spiders…”

“Only the little ones!” Merrill beamed, looking at an impressive cobweb covering a half–destroyed statue.

“Then we should leave this place,” Sebastian suggested, clearly anxious. “This place was long forgotten by the Maker.”

“People who built it didn’t care much about the Maker,” Fenris pointed at a fresco still visible after so many years. It showed a two–headed dragon roaring, its wing spread obscuring the sky, tiny people under his feet, clearly worshipping the creature or whatever it was supposed to represent.

“More reasons to leave,” the Prince mumbled, taking a step back from the painting.

“We’re not leaving yet!” Hawke called from across the room. “There’s a corridor leading somewhere, and let’s hope this somewhere has a nice treasure waiting for us!”

They all followed, their footsteps echoing between the old walls. Merrill and Anders produced small flickering orbs of magic that illuminated their way, but also made the darkens surrounding them seem more liquid. Fenris fought with a feeling of uneasiness creeping up his spine. There was magic in the air, making his skin itch, and not the kind of magic he was used to, Hawke’s, Merrill’s or Anders’, but something older and more primal, buried deep within this place.

He could suggest going back, though as long as Hawke wanted to go forward, there were going to do what she wanted.

After a while they got to the end of the corridor. Marian looked highly disappointed there wasn’t a vault filled with gold waiting for her.

“Well. That’s a bummer,” she sighed.

She looked around though there was not much to look at. The corridor was a dead end, and they were now facing a stone wall. There was only a small statue of a two headed dragon standing on a small pedestal. It seemed to be made out of stone, so Hawke didn’t pay much attention to it, not interested in anything that wasn’t shiny.

Fenris narrowed his eyes. He could swear the statue moved one of its heads. He took a step closer.

“There’s something wrong with this place…” he heard Merrill say.

“Andraste, guide us,” Sebastian said.

Anders snorted. “Praying won’t help, you better have your bow ready. Fenris! Step away from that thing, it may be a trap!”

Despite the warning, the warrior took another step closer, mesmerised by the statue. His marking itched, the air was dense with magical power. If he could just see it move…

Anders grabbed his shoulder to pull him back, but it was too late already. Fenris heard the mage gasp, and was sure he, too, saw the dragon heads move, glaring at him with black, dead eyes.

Then a wave of energy threw them all back, the elf’s back hit the stone wall, and he fell on the floor with a groan of pain. He didn’t lose his consciousness, merely closed his eyes for a moment – when Fenris opened them again, he instantly knew there was something wrong.

Moaning, complaining or, in Hawke’s case, swearing, they all got up. Fenris shook his head. Merrill stared at him with her mouth opened wide. She was significantly paler, too.

“What?!” he barked, then couched. His voice sounded different. Merrill somehow seemed smaller as if he was looking at her from a different perspective.

Then it hit him, and the whole world spun around him. Merrill wasn’t smaller, _he_ got taller. Fenris looked down on his body, partially prepared to expect what he was about to see, but he still cried out in frustration. Heavy boots, a long coat, and there was a staff on his back. He stared at his hands; pale skin, long fingers. He clutched at his face, and felt stubble.

No. No, no, no. No, no, nooo!!!

Fenris wanted to scream. He didn’t, but Anders did. Hearing his own voice screaming, he jumped in shock.

“What the fuck did you do, you blighted elf?!” Growled _his_ body. But it was Anders. He saw _his own face_ staring at him with anger and panic. Fenris was on the verge of losing his sanity once and forever.

“Can someone please tell me what happened?” Asked Hawke in a tired voice, only now standing up on her feet.

They both turned to her, after all she was the well–known saviour.

“The elf did something!!!” Yelled Anders. Fenris never knew his voice could be so high–pitched.

“I didn’t do anything!” he growled, not entirely satisfied with the sound he produced.

“Wha–…?” Hawke wheezed.

Before one of them could reply, Merrill rushed to explain, “They switched bodies. I don’t know how, I saw something like an energy link between them for a split second. Fenris didn’t touch the statue, but maybe one of us activated a trap or… or we’re just very unlucky.”

“Dear Maker…” Sebastian gasped. “This can’t be! What foul magic..?!”

“All magic is foul!” Fenris spat, giving the Prince an angry frown.

“Stop– Stop doing that with my face!” Anders whined, very close to a hysteria. “You're constantly frowning, you'll leave wrinkles on my face!”

“I’m not doing anything with your face!” he barked back. He _hated_ the voice that was coming out of his mouth. He had boots on his feet ( _boots!_ ), and all those layers of clothing made his whole body itchy. He also felt heavier, not to mention that the blighted feathers on his shoulders were driving him crazy.

“Andraste’s ass, this can’t be happening!”

“Anders, please, refrain from this kind of language in my presence!” Sebastian complained.

“You think offending you is my biggest problem now?!” Anders growled, and Fenris saw his own body flicker with energy provided by his lyrium markings.

“Calm down, mage!” he warned. “You may hurt yourself and _my_ body if you’re not careful.”

Anders gave him an angry look. Fenris realised he looked very much like a wild animal, glaring at people like this.

“Where’s Justice?” asked the mage, regaining enough control to sound calm. “He’s not with me. Can you feel him?”

Fenris swore under his breath, only now remembering why exactly he called the man an abomination. Strangely enough, he felt no unwanted presence in his head. There was only… something like a barrier at the back of his mind; the more he concentrated on it, the more his head was aching, so he focused back on the present moment.

“No. There’s a barrier in my head, but no treacherous demons whispering into my ear.”

“Justice is no demon!” Anders growled, the markings flickered again.

“I told you to calm down!” He yelled back, his voice getting hoarse.

“Okay, okay!” Hawke interrupted, stepping between them. “Girls, stop fighting, you’re both pretty. Now, let’s make one thing clear. You touched the statue..?”

“Yes,” Fenris said. Anders took a deep breath and nodded.

“Okay, let’s take a step back from the cursed thing, then.”

They did as Marian said. Fenris noticed Merrill’s frightened gaze fixed on him.

“And you swapped bodies, so that now Fenris is in Anders’ body, and Anders is in Fenris’ body?”

“That is correct,” mumbled Fenris feeling a blush spreading on his face. Anders just glared silently.

They both stared in disbelief at Hawke who snorted with laughter. “Varric must hear about this!”

“This isn’t funny! This is a disaster,” Anders complained. “I can’t feel my magic, there’s _lyrium_ under my _skin_ , and my feet are cold because this blighted elf doesn’t wear shoes!”

Fenris observed his body talking and reacting, feeling a strong urge to run to his mansion to get drunk, hoping it was all a bad dream. He wanted to punch the mage, but then he would be punching his own body. Why was everything so complicated all of the sudden..?!

“And I’m most certainly not carrying _this_!” Anders took the sword off his back. It landed on the ground with a loud _clank!_

Fenris could feel his blood boil. He reached for the hilt, grabbed and pulled it to swing it in the air and _maybe_ cut that idiot mage’s head or at least pretend to do so, but…

He could not pick up the sword. He pulled, yet this body didn’t want to cooperate. He lifted it for few seconds before he had to let it go, as the weight was simply too much for him.

Feeling other staring at him, he grabbed the mage’s staff in return. “Do you want me to break this into pieces?!” he yelled, though his voice sounded weak after all that sword pulling.

“Don’t even try!” Anders yelled back, accidentally activating the markings again.

“Enough!” Hawke’s voice thundered between the walls, silencing them both. She took a deep, calming breath.

“Anders, stop glowing and carry the stupid sword. Fenris, just take the damned staff, you won’t be able to pick up the sword anyway. I’ve never thought I’d say these things, but here we are.” Hawke wiped sweat from her forehead. “Forget the treasures. We’re going back to Kirkwall before I go crazy.”

“It’s heavy, Hawke,” Anders complained, taking the sword in his hands like it was as a feather.

“Have you ever heard me complaining?” hissed Fenris. “No, because _my body_ is strong and used to carrying heavy weapons, unlike your weakling mage arms.”

“Your bickering is NOT helping,” Hawke raised her voice again, her magic palpable in the air. They should have known better than to make the Champion angry.

“And while we’re on our way to Kirkwall, you two have a chat about your glowing thing and how to control it.”

“This stupid mage can’t understand– “

“Fenris.” He closed his mouth seeing Hawke’s scolding glare. Even though she was significantly shorter than his current self, she still managed to look no less intimidating than the Archdemon.

“I… apologise,” he said in a calm voice. “Let’s get going.”

Once they were outside, Fenris was fed up with the mage, and, most importantly, his body. He could barely walk in these heavy shoes. At least Anders looked equally uncomfortable, though all that lyrium under the skin aside, Fenris had no idea why the mage complained. _His_ body was certainly in a better shape than the mage’s skinny shell covered in layers of unnecessary clothing.

He had no intention of initiating a conversation, so they just walked behind Hawke, Merrill and Sebastian in silence.

“Oh, this is so exciting!” Merrill said to Marian. “Though it must be really hard for these two. I don’t know what would I do if I swapped my body with someone…”

“I know what I’d do if I swapped my body with a guy,” Hawke winked at the Dalish elf.

“This is the Maker punishing you for your sins,” Sebastian announced, his eyes narrowed.

Before Fenris could react (his reaction would most likely beating the man with the staff he had in his hands), Hawke turned his head to growl at the Prince.

“One more word, and _I_ will punish you, no need to wait for the Maker’s wrath!”

It was a long walk to the city, and never in his life Fenris felt more uncomfortable.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 After they _somehow_ managed to get back to Kirkwall, they all ended up in one place that was usually their base of operations – namely Varric's suite in the Hanged Man. The dwarf knew there was a problem the second Hawke barged into his room followed by a very pale Merrill, praying Sebastian, and the Angry Glowing Duo, as he liked to call Anders and Fenris.

“What did I miss?!” yelled Isabela, appearing at the doorstep, her eyes wild, scanning the room for whatever shenanigans she was expecting.

“Nothing, yet,” Hawke replied. “Close the door, please, and sit down.”

The pirate obeyed, giving the Champion a disappointing glance. “I ran here, luv, expecting fireworks or at least one naked body, but I see nothing even close to my definition of a 'shocking situation'.”

Hawke chuckled. “Just sit down and let me explain, I'm sure you'll change your mind once you hear what happened.”

Isabela huffed with annoyance but took a seat, just like the others. Varric focused back on other companions, particularly the elf and the mage. Fenris looked like he was about to implode or throw up, or possibly both at the same time, while Anders seemed furious. And broody. In fact, the mage was oozing broodiness that usually belonged to Fenris.

Something was not right, but even Varric with his vivid imagination was not prepared for the news when Hawke announced what happened. Once she finished talking, there was silence – the kind that only waits to explode any moment. Varric reached for his writing materials, feeling ideas blossoming in his head.

“That's why mages cannot be trusted!” hissed Fenris.

Anders snorted. “Now that was something I never thought I would hear myself saying!”

“This is the Maker punishing you for all your sins,” Sebastian mumbled.

“Not now, Chantry Boy!” Anders hissed; he wanted to say it in a normal voice, but it came out as a dangerous growl that surprised not only himself but also Vael who flinched as if someone smacked him right in the face.

“So, yeah, that's our problem now,” Hawke said with amusement.

Isabela wouldn't stop laughing, though it was certainly less annoying than all her comments she didn't fail to provide.

“Boys, have you considered the easiest solution?” she teased with a cat–like grin.

Anders sighed; he didn't want to hear it, yet he felt obliged to ask, “And that is..?”

“You gotta make out passionately! True love's kiss always solves all problems! Just imagine... mmm...”

“Ugh,” Fenris made a disgusted face, glaring at the pirate who started making kissing noises.

“Well, wouldn't that be just kissing myself?” Anders raised an eyebrow. Not that he was entertaining the thought of kissing a certain elf, but considering the circumstances...

Fenris whipped his head to stare at the mage. “What?!”

Isabela seemed delighted. “Oh, so you _have_ thought about it, sparkle–fingers, hmm?”

Anders shrugged, trying to sound casual despite the sensation of his face burning scarlet red. “All I'm saying is that I want to get back to NORMAL as soon as possible.”

“There will be no kissing!” Growled Fenris, slamming his fist on the table.

“Ouch, I told you to be careful with my body! Don't damage the healer's hands!”

“Skilful hands with long fingers that can do _stuff_ ,” Isabela added, wiggling her eyebrows. It was one of the best days of her life, apparently. “Tell us about your life when you worked at the Pearl in Denerim, Mister Electricity Thing!”

“The Pearl?” Sebastian asked, suddenly awakened from his prayers. “Isn’t that a bro– “ He closed his mouth shut the second he realised what he was saying but it was too late, Isabela's attention focused on him now.

“You don't say you've been there! Isn't this world small?”

“I've– I've never– “ he stuttered in panic, his face resembling a bright red tomato.

“I need to write it all down...” Varric muttered to himself, scribbling furiously.

“Would you kiss yourself, if you had the chance?” Merrill pondered. “It would be... weird. Or awesome. Or weirdly awesome?”

“Fenris, stop frowning, you're making me look old!” Anders hissed. He craved a drink or a bottle, or a bucket of wine, it didn't matter, whatever could make him instantly drunk to forget about his current problems. “Hawke, _please_ tell him to stop doing that!”

Hawke silently observed her companions with growing amusement, her lips twitching, fighting with a grin.

“I'm not telling him anything, it's your body, you deal with its current inhabitant. Besides, you boys need to learn the power of friendship, because tearing each other into shreds is not a solution!”

The mage gasped, utterly betrayed. His eyes returned to Fenris who was still frowning. His hands clenched into fists, lyrium tattoos flickered blue, and he could taste the Fade.

“Stop,” Fenris warned him, finally changing his expression. “You can't control the brands, calm down before you hurt yourself.”

Never in his life Anders felt such a tremendous urge to burn someone with a fireball. But in his current state he couldn't summon the smallest spell – which left him with an existential question regarding the nature of one's magic. Was magic linked to his body, his mind, his soul? And what about Justice? Fenris claimed he wasn't hearing the spirit talking in his thoughts, only a small sensation of having _something_ in his mind. And Anders didn't feel Justice in this body, which was refreshing, despite the fact he wasn't even is his own body. For the first time since what seemed like forever, Anders was merely Anders, nothing more. Well, Anders in a body of an ex–slave Tevinter fugitive with lyrium tattoos carved into his flesh, but still.

“Varric, could we order drinks here?” he asked, feeling a change of topic was needed. “Very many. Whatever they have, as long as it’ll make me drunk.”

“Sure, Norah will fetch us some drinks, just wait a sec,” the dwarf had a smug smile as he stood up and went to call the waitress. Anders was sure Varric thought that it would be easier to get more information from him if he got drunk… which was entirely true, Anders had to admit. At this point he simply didn’t care.

“Before you do get drunk,” Fenris said, “can we talk about our problem first?”

Anders could barely stand looking at the man controlling his body. All that frowning and those weird things he did with the mage’s voice made Anders deeply uneasy. Sure, he got _this_ body in return, but where was fun in that? Was he allowed to _examine_ his new form? Trace the lyrium tattoos? No, and it would surely end poorly, considering how prickly Fenris was when it came to his person.

“Then let’s talk, Fenris,” he growled, feeling his throat vibrating. He could get used to his new voice (besides, he secretly always liked the elf’s low, purring voice).

Thankfully Varric returned in no time with Norah carrying a tray full of drinks. Anders grabbed a bottle without hesitation, not bothering to get a glass.

“We should go to Xenon,” Hawke suggested.

Hearing their groans she rolled her eyes.

“You have any better options? He's the one person in all Kirkwall who knows a lot about weird artefacts and odd magic. If you have a better solution, then enlighten me. If you want to try Isabela's idea, then please, don't be shy, maybe true love's kiss really is going to solve this problem, who knows?”

She winked at the pirate. Isabela beamed.

“Let's go to Xenon, I don't care,” mumbled Anders, spilling wine all over the table. He managed to empty half of the bottle in seconds and was getting too drunk too quickly. The elf's body remembered how to hold his liquor, but Anders' mind was too excited by the prospect of finally getting completely intoxicated without a Fade spirit holding him back.

“If you damage my body, I'll kill you,” hissed Fenris. The mage thought his face looked funny; it was still his face, but with Fenris' signature frown. _Hysterical_.

“But isn't today his bath day?” asked Merrill. “And it’s pretty late, too.”

Hawke swore under her breath. “You're right, I erased that from my memory. Seems like you'll have to wait, boys. We'll go to the Emporium tomorrow.”

“You expect us to spend the night like this?!” The elf did things with Anders’ voice that the mage didn't know were possible. He didn’t exactly mind.

“Again, do you have a better solution than waiting till tomorrow to go see Xenon?”

Fenris closed his mouth, and started brooding in silence. Anders couldn't stop staring at him; it was his body but so very much Fenris–like, all characteristic gestures and mannerism, it felt surreal.

Well, considering everything that happened, the situation was, indeed, surreal. He finished the bottle and reached for another one, feeling all warm inside.

“Hey, Blondie, I mean Broody, I mean– _shit_ ,” Varric let out a sigh. “You may think about slowing down with the wine, Blondie in Broody's body.”

“Varric, listen, I haven't had the occasion to get drunk since, ya know,” he made a vague gesture that was supposed to represent his joining with the spirit. “This is the only good thing in this whole mess, so let me have this one. I won't vomit on your rug, I promise. I'll get back to my clinic and sleep like a good apostate once I'm done drowning my worries in this cheap piss people here call liquor.”

Fenris shoot him a murdering stare. Anders shrugged, completely unfazed. Fenris and his constant frowning made his body look at least ten years older. It was insufferable.

“But if you go to Darktown, people will see Fenris not the real you,” Merrill said. “Even if you wore each other's clothes it wouldn't help, you don’t look alike.”

“Merrill's right, you're not going to the clinic, I'm afraid,” Hawke added. “Currently you're nothing like the nice healer Darktown folk know so well. They see you going in the clinic, they'll think you want to kill their favourite mage.”

“Hawke's right," barked Fenris, pointedly ignoring Merrill. “I don't want to burden any of you more than we already did. We're going to the mansion, then.”

“Well, you do have a lot of wine in your cellar...” mused Anders. He felt all warm and fuzzy inside. Finally, after all these years. Whatever problems he had, they weren't as important as getting another bottle to keep drinking and forgetting about everything.

Isabela clasped her hands. “You two spending a night together?! That's like one of my friend fictions coming true! Varric, are you writing it all down???”

“What friend fiction?!” Fenris growled. Or intended to growl. Anders' vocal cords weren't used to these types of sounds, as he already discovered.

“Friends, please!” Sebastian spoke, raising up his hands, naive enough to believe he could calm them down. “Let us pray to the Maker to guide us during this difficult time.”

“Shut up, Vael, or I'm gonna use the glowing fisting technique to rip out your heart, though I have no idea how to do it... If you don't stop talking I will do it or Maker help me,” Anders threatened, his voice just the right kind of a predatory growl.

When he tried to grab the bottle, his hand phased right through it. He stared at his hand with shock and desperation.

“Calm down or you'll hurt yourself. You'll hurt _my_ body,” Fenris repeated again, and grabbed his hand. “Concentrate. Fasta vas, you are drunk already, aren't you?”

“I think you boys need to cooperate, if you know what I mean,” Isabela laughed.

“Bela, please,” Hawke sighed. “Let's get going. Just get Anders more drunk, he'll go to sleep.”

“Or you can go to sleep together– “

“Bela!”

“I'm just having a little fun, sheesh...” the pirate complained, grabbing a drink to improve her humour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued.  
> Comments are always appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders is drunk, Fenris is... curious.

 

Anders, as Fenris soon discovered, wasn't as drunk as others thought; fresh night air and a quick walk to the mansion sobered him up a little, which resulted in more whining.

If the mage wasn't in his body, Fenris would have killed him once and for all.

“Maker's balls, this place reeks. Why won't you get rid of the corpses? There are mushrooms growing on the walls. Mushrooms, Fenris!” Anders started complaining the second he got inside the house.

Fenris closed his eyes and counted to five. Others left them after he had promised Hawke he wouldn't damage the mage. The promise already proved difficult to keep, and it wasn't his fault.

“Stop whining, mage.”

Thankfully Anders listened to him, focusing his attention on his current objective. “Where's the wine cellar?”

The thought of Anders wandering through the mansion finding more reasons to complain, and then whining endlessly made Fenris shudder with anger.

“Go upstairs to the main room, I'll bring you wine. Just. Stop. Talking.”

He waited for Anders to get going, and once the mage reached the top of the stairs, Fenris went to fetch the wine. He would gladly get drunk himself, but he wasn't sure how this body would react, and from what Anders was saying, he wouldn't be able to drink much anyway. His thoughts returned to the odd barrier in his mind, but other than a slight ache in his temples, Fenris didn't feel any unnatural presence in his head. It didn't change the fact that he was constantly catching himself at contemplating his hands. Or boots. Or other parts of his current body. The clothes were ridiculous, but the body itself was... different. Not a 'bad' different necessarily, Fenris had to admit.

At first it was awful, but gradually Fenris learned to appreciate certain differences, like the fact he was now the second tallest person in their group, after Sebastian. He hated when people looked down on him, even though he was tall for an elf, humans tended to be taller. Today when they walked through Kirkwall, or when they were at the Hanged Man, not a single person glared at him in the way humans usually regarded elves. He was suddenly treated as equal, only because he had a body of a human man.

Under all those layers, Anders was skinny, Fenris discovered, although his body was strong. He had a certain thought that made his ears red, and he couldn’t quite get rid of it.

He wanted to look at this body. Pushing aside the fact that it belonged to a mage _and_ an abomination, he was curious.

He knew he was being a big hypocrite, the very thought of Anders touching him made Fenris cringe (and remember what was done to him in his past life, the memories buried deep within him but not forgotten completely), but he wanted to touch this body.

Because he was curious, nothing else. Obviously.

He grabbed three bottles thinking it would be more than enough for the mage, and quickly went upstairs. He found Anders sitting by the table, contemplating a half full bottle in his hand that he must have found among other empty or smashed ones.

“You've been dinking this?” he asked, glancing at Fenris. “It's not poison, I presume? How much alcohol do you have in this house, exactly? There are broken bottles everywhere...”

“It's wine. Antivan, as Donnic claims,” he put the bottles on the table close to Anders. “The mansion is well stocked, but the supply is not endless, I'm afraid.”

“May as well try the Antivan kind,” Anders grinned and drank the remaining wine without flinching.

Fenris observed the man thinking this was exactly how he looked like when he sat here, drinking alone. It wasn't the nicest picture, to put it mildly. He felt an odd tingling in his fingertips, vaguely wondering if it was Anders’ magical power calling to him. He was sure that if he let his guard down, the magic would flow from his hands because the body remembered. But he didn’t want to test this theory; as tempting it was to set Anders on fire with his powers, he would only damage his own body. Besides, there was this barrier in his head, hiding whatever powers or demons the mage hid in his mind.

After finishing the bottle, Anders threw it on the floor. “This is how you do it, right?”

Fenris grimaced. “Help yourself. If you wish to drink more, then do so. As long as you don't damage my body.”

Anders reached for another bottle. Fenris enjoyed the silence; at least the mage wasn't complaining anymore. The fact that the man was currently on a way to drink himself to death didn't bother him as much as it should.

“These are quite heavy...” Anders mused, removing the gauntlets. He clenched and unclenched his fists, fascinated by the movement of the hands, then traced the lyrium tattoos going from the fingertips up the arm.

Fenris gritted his teeth. He wasn't comfortable with Anders touching him, but then he himself wanted to do exactly the same to the mage's body. So he didn't say anything as Anders removed the chestpiece, placing it on the table by the gauntlets. He did speak, however, as Anders stood up and began unbuttoning the tunic.

“Stop it, mage.”

The man looked at him questioningly. “I always wanted to see what's the pattern of your markings,” he admitted. “And I can feel all these… muscles moving. Aren’t you quite muscular for a lean elf? I just want to have a quick look.”

 The liquor he consumed made him honest – _too_ honest for the elf’s liking.

“I want many things but it doesn't mean I'm getting them.”

Anders rolled his eyes. “All right then, but I need to bathe anyway.”

Fenris momentarily tensed, tingling in his hands getting stronger. “You're not bathing my body.”

“You want me to go to bed filthy after all day of running around with Hawke and all that?!”

“You live in Darktown, you’re used to filth,” Fenris pointed out.

“Well, excuse me, serah elf, if I could afford living in a mansion, I'd gladly move to Hightown. Sadly, I don't have a former master to rob him of his fancy house!”

Fenris gritted his teeth, calling for the Blight to take him and sacrifice to the Archdemon. He could barely stand hearing _his own_ voice and seeing _his own_ body talking and acting like Anders.

“You will survive this one night, and I'm sure my body can survive not bathing for one day,” he said with a relatively calm voice that cost him half of his sanity, he imagined. “You had enough wine. Now could you please find yourself a spot and sleep. We shall resume our _discussion_ in the morning.”

Of course nothing could be easy with the mage. “What do you mean, find a spot? What's wrong with the bed? Don't you have a bed in this place, or do you sleep on the rug in front of the fireplace?!”

“Well, I do have a bed, and _I_ 'm sleeping on it,” Fenris replied, already knowing where this conversation was going.

He watched his body tense, now Anders was frowning for a change. Fenris obviously never saw himself from a different perspective, and he wasn't the type who would spend all day staring at his reflection in the mirror; now he realised the angry expression did make him look like a wild dog ready to bite any second. No wonder people generally avoided him.

“I'm not going to sleep on the floor,” Anders announced; his speech was slurred but only a bit. “I am sleeping on the blighted bed because it's the only thing I can sleep on in this fucking mansion full of filth, spiders and dead rotting bodies.”

The markings flickered, illuminating the room with a faint blue light. Fenris held his tongue, listening to the mage; he couldn't quite grasp why he was so mesmerized by his words. Was this some kind of extreme narcissism?

“So let's just go to sleep without arguing,” Anders continued, his voice a low growl, “because I'm getting a headache which is not a good thing considering I have no blighted idea how to control your tattoos. If I accidentally rip out your - _mine own!_ \- heart, it'll be your fault. I'm not asking you to act like we were in one of Isabela's crazy friend fiction stories, I just want to go to sleep. On the bed like a normal human being, not curled on the floor like a Mabari.”

Fenris capitulated and nodded.

“Where's the bedroom, then? Don't just sit here, lead on!”

He seriously considered punching his own body only to silence the mage. He could live with a broken nose, but he wasn't sure if he could live through a night with the mage constantly talking and ordering him around.

He promised Hawke he wouldn’t damage the healer. Fenris swore in his thoughts. He wouldn’t risk making the Champion mad at him, no matter how irritating Anders was.

The bedroom was one of the three rooms Fenris made habitable, meaning it was relatively clean (or: not as dirty as the unoccupied ones). It was still messy as the elf never bothered to take care of his surroundings. At least the bed was comfortable; luxurious, with a thick mattress and soft covers. Fenris thanked the Maker the bed was huge. He could fit three grown men in there if he ever wanted to, which meant he and the abomination could sleep comfortably without touching. 

If Anders touched him in his sleep, Fenris would murder–

“I thought it would be cleaner! This is the place where you sleep!”

Anders was back in his bickering mode. The sooner the man falls asleep the better.

“Again, you live in the sewers called Darktown,” Fenris sighed. “Just stop talking and go to sleep.”

For a moment he considered sleeping in all clothes he was wearing, but he had enough of the coat, so he began to undo all the clasps and buttons. Once he was done (it took him longer than expected, which created a question about the functionality of the damn thing), Fenris threw the coat on the floor.

“Hey, be careful! This coat's the only one I have,” Anders called, sitting on the bed. He was caressing the mattress like he couldn't remember when was the last time he slept on a decent bed – which was most likely true considering his living conditions in Kirkwall.

“I hate this thing,” Fenris admitted, kicking off his boots. “What's with you and feathers?”

“What's with you and all those spikey metal things, huh?”

They simply couldn't agree on anything, could they?

Once Anders made himself comfortable, Fenris walked to the bed as well. He lay on the other side, as far from the man as possible without falling off. At first he considered staying awake to make sure Anders didn't do anything. Then, hearing the man snoring lightly, he decided it was no use losing a night. There was, however, something that didn't let him fall asleep.

The mage was out in no time, lulled to sleep by wine, whereas Fenris could not find peace, his whole body – Anders' body – tingling with not only something close to magic but also with dangerous curiosity. Making sure the man was truly sleeping (the peaceful expression on the face that belonged to the elf looked odd, he had to admit), Fenris quietly stood up and tiptoed to another room. There was a large mirror standing by the window, covered in layers of cobwebs and dust. Gently, he brushed them off enough to see his own reflection. His first impulse was to smash the mirror, seeing the face of the mage, not his own. He took a deep breath. It was most unfortunate that of all people he had to swap bodies with Anders. Every other day, he couldn't stand looking at the man. Now, however, curiosity won over common sense, and Fenris could not stop looking at the mage's body in the mirror.

He reached out to untie the hair and contemplated the result judgingly. Raking his hand through blond strands he discovered that human hair was not as soft as elven. And the mage could use a haircut. Or he could grow his hair more; Fenris pondered about the possibility of the mage with a long braid and smiled despite himself.

Seeing Anders smile was rare, mostly because the man never smiled when Fenris was around. His fingers brushed the stubble, lips, the tip of a long nose. He remembered what the mage had said when they ventured into the Blooming Rose; some thought him handsome. Fenris never even considered this, but he had to admit Anders _was_ handsome. When he wasn't blabbing about mage rights or similar nonsense, that is.

He vowed to keep these thoughts to himself.

Hesitantly, his hand moved to the shirt. After reprimanding Anders to not take off anything else but the armour, Fenris felt like he was betraying his own rules as he undressed, letting the shirt and pants pile on the floor by his (large, human) feet, now the body covered only by smalls to provide one last shred of decency. He blamed his curiosity or whatever demon that was whispering all these ideas into his ear. He straightened his back and admired the refection, turning around and looking from different angles.

Before he could stop himself, his hand touched his chest, fingertips caressing a large scar right above the heart. No person could survive a blow that left such scar, yet the mage was certainly not dead. _Was it the spirit that saved him?,_ Fenris mused. The presence in his head wasn't disturbing his thoughts, but he could feel there was something, someone, in there, trapped. How could Anders live like this?

He mindlessly touched his arms, feeling human body hair under his hands, the sensation so odd and... fascinating; he found himself craving to touch more. There were scars all over Anders' body; tiny cuts on his arms and shoulders, bigger marks on his almost hairless chest, and when he touched his back he felt more bruises there. He turned around to see the scarred back in the dim light seeping through the window. He examined the shapes; lashes, probably. Not healed properly, leaving long, ugly marks.

Anders was unnaturally thin, too, yet his arms were muscular and strong after all those years of fighting with a staff. Large hands, long calloused fingers. This body was scarred, thin on the verge of malnourishment, but also strong and capable of summoning powerful spells. He could feel a hint of magic, and Fenris was sure if he tried this body would remember how to throw a fireball or repair a broken bone. The problem was that his mind didn't understand how it worked, and all that power was separated from him, hidden behind a barrier.

Fenris looked down and wiggled his toes. Anders had enormously large feet. He touched his thighs, bent down to touch his knees and calves. More body hair, more scars. He couldn't fight with the urge to touch more; he should feel... disgusted, not fascinated.

Yet he could not stop looking, touching, feeling because for the first time there was no pain carving its way through him. He had no markings poisoning him with lyrium. No constant reminder of his treacherous connection to the Fade that he himself could not fully understand. For the first time he felt… free. And wasn’t this ironic considering he swapped bodies with a _mage_.

He straightened his back again. There was a trail of hair going down from the belly button, blond but with a hint of copper. Looking intensely into the honey eyes of the man in the mirror, he let his hand touch the trail of hair, then through the thin fabric of the smalls touch the half hard cock. The way his – Anders' – eyes widened and lips parted, sent a wave of pleasure through his body.

It was wrong.

He could not stop.

What if the demon– spirit– _thing_ , what if it later tells Anders about everything Fenris did to this body? After all, the mage was the host, Justice wouldn't allow anyone to damage the body he was inhabiting. But Fenris wasn't _damaging_ the body, right?

He was dangerously close to crossing a line – he would not dare to cross it, because he knew what it meant to be used, and what he was doing now was disturbingly similar to using the mage's body. He was almost sure Anders wouldn't have any inhibitions and would do whatever he pleased if left alone (and sober), however, Fenris couldn't do exactly what he wanted. He wasn't sure what he did want, to begin with.

Part of him wanted to see the man scream in pain. The other part of him craved to see Anders writhe in pleasure. The important part was, he didn't want to see himself in the man's body, no, that wasn't it. He wanted to see Anders under him – covered in blood and dying or grasping the bedsheet and crying out his name, Fenris wasn't sure which. All he wanted was to make Anders _react_ ; be the reason the mage showed the strongest emotion possible and observe how his whole body changed.

He bowed his head. It was wrong, he had to stop.

With a shudder, he reached for the clothes and dressed, no longer looking at the reflection in the mirror, certain that if he ever again saw the honey eyes staring at him wide, slightly trembling as if trying to voice a particular need, and a light blush on the cheeks... Fenris knew if he ever saw Anders looking like that, he wouldn't hesitate to cross the line and take what he wanted.

When he woke up in the morning, he had a vague idea he had a dream, but he could not say what was the dream about.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

Anders hoped he would wake up in his normal body. But no. Everything got only worse.

There was a little demon poking his head with a sharp object every two minutes. As much as Anders missed getting drunk, he was never a fan of hangovers. The fact that he couldn't heal his headache with a simple spell, or make a potion, only made him grumpier. It took him half an hour to get ready after Fenris woke him up yelling (the elf claimed he was merely _talking_ to him, but why in the Void was he so loud), and dragged outside. He nearly went blind when the sunlight attacked his eyes. Fenris was dragging him in some unknown direction, and he could hear Hawke, Isabela and Varric who joined them Maker knew when.

Only after he drank whatever the dwarf got him as a 'medication' for his pitiful state, Anders could stand on his own feet without the fear of falling on his face.

“Okay, you don't look so green anymore,” Hawke said, patting him on the shoulder. “Let's go to Xenon.”

“Never in my wildest dream have I thought I'd see Broody so wasted,” Varric admitted. “Well, Blondie's in charge, but it was Broody's body that got affected, so...”

“It would be wise if you stopped talking, dwarf,” Fenris barked. It seemed he got partially accustomed to his new voice, though he still wanted to sound more like himself which produced an interesting result.

Anders smiled despite the pounding in his head. What a beautiful day for a hangover.

“Did you do it?!” Isabela grabbed his arm, her face full of excitement.

“If by 'it' you mean going to sleep, and sleeping all night long then _yes_ ,” he replied and couched as his voice sounded even more hoarse after all that drinking.

“No kissing?” Isabela pouted. “You spent a night in one house and you didn't shag senseless? That's not only disappointing, that's sad!”

“Not everything is about sex,” Anders sighed, massaging his temples. Despite having a hangover, he wasn't complaining (that much); he hadn't had a hangover since he left the Wardens and merged with Justice, it brought back memories of simpler times. Not that he enjoyed the pounding in his head, but still.

“Sweet thing, listen, if anyone ever swapped bodies with a hot piece of ass like me, and I'd end up in a body of a nice man candy like you or the broody elf, you can be sure kissing would be the first thing I'd do. And then we'd go to my room at the Hanged Man, and...”

“Okay, okay, that's enough,” Anders interrupted her before she said something that could scar him forever.

“Are you two done yelling obscenities?” Fenris growled, or at least indented to because his current body wasn't used to his usual growling.

“We haven't even begun, but you can join in if you want,” the pirate winked.

“Save it, wench.”

Anders noticed that Fenris tried to hide his discomfort, but the mage could clearly see his own body showing all symptoms of being uncomfortable. Was the elf so disgusted with the idea of sleeping next to him for one night? Anders shook his head; this blighted fool was impossible. Not to mention that his hair looked so messy the mage began to wonder if Fenris knew about the amazing invention called a hair brush.

Thankfully, the Black Emporium wasn't far; the bad thing was, Xenon looked like something that crawled from the depths of the filthiest sewers under Darktown, and it certainly wasn't helping their situation.

It was only natural that Hawke and Varric did all the talking. Part of Anders feared Xenon would say it was impossible to reverse the magic responsible for this mess. He got used to hearing bad news all his life. He was so focused on negative thoughts, he didn't hear the antiquarian's wheezing at first.

“It is... possible to reverse the spell.”

“What needs to be done?” Fenris asked in a tense voice.

“It's simple magic but– “ he coughed for what seemed like eternity.

“But?” Anders prompted with a hint of panic. Magic always required something, he knew it too well.

“But... _Expensive_.”

When the antiquarian told them the price, Anders had to grab the nearest object to support himself or faint. Incidentally, he grabbed Fenris' shoulder, and the elf hissed.

”I don't have this kind of money!” Anders whimpered, ignoring Fenris completely. He pictured himself forever trapped in this body. As... tempting it was to go have some fun with exploring the pattern of lyrium tattoos on the dark skin (he would have done it last night if it wasn't for all that alcohol he consumed, and the elf's whining), the idea of staying like this forever made his knees weak and head spin. He longed for his magic that no devilishly handsome elf and his purring voice could replace.

“You don't have _any_ money, sweetie,” Hawke said and laughed. “This may be partially my fault, so this one's on me. But you both have to promise me two things.”

Fenris simply bowed his head. Anders trembled slightly, ready to give up his firstborn if that was what Hawke wanted.

“You'll accompany me when I ask you, providing you're not busy with your personal matters. And getting drunk in a rotting mansion is NOT a good excuse, Fenris,” she gave him a stern look. Anders saw his face blush.

“That's the first thing,” Marian continued with a triumphant smile. “The second is: no more bickering about slaves and mages. Not one word about it. I've had it with you two. Maybe you finally learned a valuable lesson, not hearing your usual arguing for one day was a true blessing. Once you're back to your normal bodies, I don't want to hear it ever again. Do you understand, boys?”

“Yes, Hawke,” they said in unison.

“Great. We have a deal, Xenon. I'm paying for whatever you have for these two.”

The antiquarian wheezed a command to Thaddeus. Anders observed as the golem moved, his heavy stone body making the floor shake. He glanced at Fenris who seemed equally nervous.

The golem brought them a small vial filled with a purple liquid. Fenris took it and regarded suspiciously, probably thinking it was a poison.

“Half for one... Haaalf for the other one,” Xenon wheezed. “Drink.”

“Do they have to seal the spell with a kiss?” Isabela suggested.

“If... they want to...” Ander could swear he heard amusement in the antiquarian’s voice.

Fenris was still staring at the vial as if it could explode any second.

“Oh, give me this,” Anders grabbed it and took a sip without thinking.

It was... nice. He licked his lips. The liquid had a sweet taste that reminded him of an apple pie.

“It's not a poison, you ass,” he said. “Drink or it won't work. You want to stay like this forever?”

Fenris grumbled something in response but took the vial and drank. He, too, seemed surprised by the taste.

Anders blinked. And when he opened his eyes, he was no longer looking at his own body, he was looking at Fenris from a considerably different perspective, meaning...

“It worked?” asked Hawke.

Anders looked down to finally see his own body. “Well, I didn't expect fireworks or anything but this is kinda... anticlimactic?”

“You boys sure ya feel all right?” Varric asked with concern.

“I don't have a hangover anymo– “

**Your foolish behaviour caused the elf to suffer** , Justice boomed, making Anders flinch. He almost missed the feeling of having a Fade spirit inside his head.

“It was worth it,” he replied, ignoring Varric's confused stare. “I missed getting drunk.”

**This is why I do not allow you to consume excessive amounts of alcohol.**

“Well, you bloody should because it would make my life easier!”

“The mage seems crazy as ever,” Varric shook his head. “How about you, Broody?”

Fenris massaged his temples. “My body has a hangover because this blighted mage got it drunk yesterday. How do you think I feel?”

“Great, we're back to our regular talking to himself and growling in anger,” Hawke said with a wide smile. “We get a happy ending, how nice!”

They left the Black Emporium, with only mild complaining from Isabela, disappointed she didn't get to see any kissing.

 

*

 

The first thing Fenris did after coming back to the mansion was getting bottles of wine from the cellar. He sat down in his usual spot, feet on the table, and drank until the headache was replaced by a sweet sensation of alcohol circulating in his bloodstream.

It was easier to believe this was all a bad dream. He was in debt to Hawke (again), which was not a problem. The real problem was...

He got up and, wobbling slightly on his feet, walked to the other room with a bottle in one hand.

He looked in the mirror but saw only his own reflection. He was certain Anders' honey eyes looking so intently, filled with so many emotions focused on _him_ , would haunt his mind forever.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading :)  
> Comments are much appreciated!


End file.
